


blended cotton with gannex twill

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, M/M, a separate easily skipped Porn Chapter(TM), for something with a magical trenchcoat in it like....i'm not sure what happened, not as cracky as intended tbh, not as cracky as you'd think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: "How do you keep doing this?" Chas says, frowning at the third long tear of the fabric in as many days.John shrugs, taking a loud bite from the apple he's snagged from the kitchen before coming to watch Chas mend his coat. "Dunno," he says. "'s like it's got a mind of its own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [offkilter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offkilter/gifts).



> Remember that time in the _Hellblazer_ comics when [John's trenchcoat gained sentience and got into all sorts of mischief](http://hellblazer.wikia.com/wiki/The_Devil's_Trenchcoat)? 
> 
> Well. This is almost nothing like that time, except for a joke or two I stole. 
> 
> I blame [@kindaoffkilter for this](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/142662360571/kindaoffkilter-morethanonepage). I always said I would when I finished it, and I do.

_“That’s new."_

_“You like it? Quality English craftsmanship, this."_

_“Where’d you get it?"_

_"’s a gift."_

_He snorted, and gently folded the collar of the coat down. “Does the previous owner know that?"_

_“Well,” a pause, and a casual smirk. “I s’ppose by now, he must."_  

 *

Chas stumbles over it on the way out of his bedroom, and sighs.

Stoops to pick it up off the floor, frowning as he imagines the kind of sordid circumstances that might’ve led to it being discarded in such a thoughtless rush. He shakes it automatically, performing a cursory inspection: no blood today, no mysterious stains. A tear to the lip of the pocket, not really requiring repair, but he lays it careful on the dining table anyway. Smooths out the thick fabric, reaches for the sewing kit, and goes to work.

He's almost done by the time John skulks out of his room, unshaven, alone, and looking terminally hungover. “What’re you doin’ with that, mate?”

“You left it on the floor last night. Almost tripped over it, by the way."

John's brow furrows. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that, won’t happen again."

Chas doubts it. “Anyway. You ripped the pocket, so I just figured I’d…” he shrugs, and keeps at it, pushing the needle through the fabric with as delicate touch as he can manage. Looks up to see John staring at him, eyes narrowed in suspicious curiosity.

“What?” he says, suddenly wary of the scrutiny.

John blinks. “Nothing,” he says, ducking his head, and retreats.

 * 

_Frayed edges meticulously mended; brutally sliced ends joined together. Whole again, stronger than before._

_Hands along sleeves, across body, gliding over silk-smooth interior, smoothing down hardy tan fabric — fingers broad but nimble, quick but careful. Not hasty, not reckless, not callous._

_Thoughtful._

_Considerate._

_Careful._

* 

"For fuck's sake, John."

He stops pacing. "Hm?"

Chas pushes off from the counter he's been leaning against and walks over to him. John raises his eyebrows, and Chas sighs, handing him the cup of coffee he's been sipping. "Turn around."

John does, more out of curiosity than anything else. "Why?"

"You need to do a better job with this," Chas says, neatly folding the ends of the belt over each other. "You keep dragging it through god knows what, and then I'm the one who has to wash it." He punctuates with a firm, almost possessive tug of both ends, so they hang at about an even length, then quickly runs his palms down the sides of the coat, smoothing the wrinkles out of it.

John hums in vague gratitude, and takes a loud gulp from the mug he's been handed as he turns back around. He smirks at Chas. "Just the way I like it."

"Oh I'm so glad," Chas says, rolling his eyes as he goes to get himself another cup.  

 * 

Chas worries _, John said, rolling his eyes._

_—hands tying up tails, running down sides —_

_—fingers folding down collars, fastening buttons —_

_—soaking stains, scrubbing out spots —_

Chas _, John — ungrateful, impatient, uncaring — sneered._ He worries _._

 * 

They're a mess, all three of them: Chas' shirt soaked through with his own blood, Zed pale and trembling as if she'd just been dunked in ice-cold water, probably because she had, and John, in addition to the blood on his hands and the large green stain across his chest, only managing forward motion due to Chas' arm around his waist and Zed's hand under his elbow.

"' m all right, 'm all right, fuck off, you two, can walk by meself."

"Sure, John," says Chas, weary but eternally patient. "Maybe I need the help, huh? Ever think of that?"

John leans heavily into his side. "Don't say I never did something for you, mate," he slurs.

"I would never." Chas glances at Zed, who's lost her grip on John's arm and seems to need a moment to steady herself. "I got this."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've got to get him out of all this, and you look like you need some sleep."

"It's nothing I haven't seen before,” she says, which was unfortunately true — it’s something of an occupational hazard, sharing a home with John Constantine, but there’s no reason for Zed to have to get used to it. Chas, unfortunately, already has.

"Don't worry about it," Chas says, shaking his head as John’s knees buckle. He grabs at Chas' sweater to keep himself upright, and Chas tightens his grip around John’s waist without thinking. “I got you,” he murmurs, soothingly as possible.

“Sod off,” John mumbles into his chest, getting the green ooze that still clings to him onto Chas' shoulder.

Zed raises her eyebrows, and Chas just shakes his head. After a moment, she seems to accept it, and goes, but not before mouthing _good luck_ at him.

"Ooooh, gettin' me outta all this, are you?" John snickers, sounding more drunk than anything, though Chas knows it's mostly exhaustion and pain talking. "Hell of a time for an attack on my tender virtue, mate."

Well. Exhaustion, pain, and John's latent asshole tendencies.

"What can I say, John?" he mutters, guiding him back into the bathroom. "This half-dead look just really does it for me, y'know?"

"Don't be an arse," John says, letting himself be leveraged down onto the toilet seat.

"Never," Chas promises, slipping the coat off John's shoulders and going to unbutton his shirt. The green ooze stings his fingertips.

"What's the damage?"

"Tie's a goner," he said, wincing as he dumps it in the trash. "Shirt too. You've got one hell of a rash."

"Swell," John groans, then sighs as Chas slips the shirt off his arms and bundles it into a ball.

"Coat'll be good after a wash."

John leans back and shut his eyes. "Huzzah for English craftsmanship."

Chas surveys him carefully: aside from the rash and the bruises on his arms, John looks better than expected, and mostly intact. "You can say that again."

John smirks without opening his eyes, as if he knows he's being looked at; he always does seem to.

Chas clears his throat. "You need help with the pants?"

"Dunno," John drawls, spreading his legs slightly. "Do I?"

"No," he says, pulling the coat out from behind John. John opens his eyes to glare at him. “Gonna go soak this before the stains set. Try not to drown in the shower, okay?"

"Oh, I'll do my very best," John sneers, and sets about opening his fly. 

 * 

_John — did not worry._

_John mucked up._

_Tred through grime. Acted without thought. Left wreckage behind, forgotten on floors, flung over chairs._

_Torn and sodden and filthy — blood and refuse and grave dirt and more, seeping in between fibers, creeping through the tightest cotton weave._

_Stroked and laundered and tended to, eventually. Mended, eventually;_ rescued _, eventually, but _—_ never by John._

 _Never quite the same again._  

 *

"How do you keep doing this?" Chas says, frowning at the third long tear of the fabric in as many days.

John shrugs, taking a loud bite from the apple he's snagged from the kitchen before coming to watch Chas mend his coat. "Dunno," he says. "'s like it's got a mind of its own."

Chas sighs. "You need to take better care of your clothes."

"Whatever you say, daddy," John says, chewing noisily and smacking his lips into a happy smirk.

Chas looks up, and what he's about to say is lost to the wince and sharp "Fuck," he hisses as he pierces the sensitive skin of his thumb instead of the fabric. He yanks his hand back instinctively, shaking it a little as if to displace the pain.

John laughs, grabbing at Chas' wrist, catching him before he brings his hand back to his mouth to suck at the wound. "Try not to bleed all over our nice clean coat there, mate."

Chas gives him a fundamentally displeased look, and tries to pull his hand away. John's grip is tighter than he'd have expected, and his fingers are sticky with the juice from the apple.

"Let's have a look, then."

"It'll heal by itself," Chas says, because it will, either way; sometimes smaller, insignificant wounds like this don't, at least not any quicker than they would've before.

"Hmm," says John, letting his hand slide further up Chas' forearm, and leaning over to get a closer look.

"What are you doing?"

John glances up at him, dark eyes suddenly, inexplicably uncertain. Then he blinks, and the smug smile returns, as he bends his head and brings his mouth to Chas' thumb. Presses a light kiss to the tip of his finger, and, when Chas doesn't pull his hand away, lets his tongue flicker and swirl. Chas, more surprised than upset, makes no move to stop him, not right away, not even when John makes a loud, filthy slurping noise around his finger.

Chas exhales.

John looks up.

Their eyes meet, and hold.

Chas seems to be asking a question, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin; John answers with a careful shrug, squeezing Chas' wrist again. Chas extricates it from John's grip, and drops his hand back to the table. His palm presses against the smooth tan fabric of the coat as he leans over. He wraps his other hand around the back of John's neck, draws him closer, and kisses him soundly.

John grins and kisses back, open-mouthed and aggressive, pawing at Chas’ shirt and practically pulling himself onto Chas' lap. Once there, he coils an arm around Chas' neck for support, and uses his other hand to cradle Chas' head, run his fingers through Chas' hair. Pulls back enough to change the angle, and Chas wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. They kiss for a while, discovery giving way to desperation, all shared, panting breaths and groping hands, until the door to the mill house bangs open above them, and they break apart like shrapnel.

By the time Zed makes it downstairs, John's leaning back in his chair and finishing his apple, and Chas's fiddling distractedly with the sleeve of his coat.

Neither John, nor Chas, nor Zed notice the bright bead of blood that glimmers red against the thick fabric for a moment, before being sucked down between the tan fibers, almost as if it'd never been there.

 *

_John’s pulse, warm skin against cold lining, quickened._

_Not rare. Not strange._

_But now — every prickle sweat at the back of John’s neck, quick puff of breath, twitch of his wrists —_ Chas _, they said._

Chas _, they screamed._

*

John lands flat on his back, hard enough to knock the breath out of him; Chas lands directly on top of him, covering John’s body with his own, shielding him from the debris and the sharp flare of light.

They lie there together, buzzing with adrenaline, as John struggles to catch his breath. Chas hoists himself onto his elbows and stays where he is, hips pressing down against John’s, his chest grazing John's with every struggling gasp. He runs a careful hand over John’s head, stroking his dusty, tousled hair. John leans into his touch, thoughtlessly, immediately, closing his eyes for a moment. Inhales, and the tension in his body eases. Chas' fingers trail down to the side of his neck. Checking his pulse, but John lets out a soft, pleased sound, and Chas glances back at his face: John's dark eyes are open now, calmer than usual, sharp as ever.

“Okay?” he says, and John nods. Licks his lips. Reaches up, both hands shaking but only slightly, as his fingertips curl over Chas' ears and trail along his jaw. The cuffs of John's coat feel warm, somehow, as they brush against the side of Chas' neck; from John’s body heat, from the explosion.

John blinks. Swallows. “You?"

“Okay.” Chas says, again; nervously, ducking his head. John’s fingers keep carding through his hair, and the cuffs of his coat keep brushing against his skin. When Chas looks up again he catches a glimpse of John's smile before it's pressed up against his mouth. More gently than Chas expects from him, given the last time, but still insistent, still impossible to ignore.

He tries: “John—"

“Don’t think about it."

And he doesn't, for a while.

Acts instead, pressing John down against the filthy warehouse floor, kissing him as hard as he lets himself. John doesn't complain, keeps running his hands through Chas' hair and panting into his mouth and sucking on his tongue.

He pulls back. John sighs, long-suffering, as if deprived of something. Shifts, slightly, raising his hips to rub against Chas.

"You've got to be kidding me."

John smirks. “Must I?” he almost purrs, rolling his hips again, arching his neck. Pulling out all the stops, Chas realizes, and it's almost flattering, in a way, but also strange enough to be off-putting. He draws back, not without some reluctance, but with finality. John tries to follow him, hands scrambling for purchase on Chas' arms, pulling at Chas' shirt. Leveraging himself up, so close that his breathes bloom against Chas' mouth.

"John? Chas?" Zed, from a distance, but apparently close enough to hear John's frustrated groan in response. “Are you two..." a pause, pregnant with skeptical judgement. " _Done_ down there?”

John looks up at him, dark eyes strangely soft as he runs his fingers through Chas' hair. “Dunno,” he says, leaning up just enough to brush their lips together. “Are we?"

“Yeah,” says Chas, sitting up; John's erection twitches against the inside of Chas' thigh, but he rolls his eyes and lets himself drop back down onto the floor. “Yeah, we’ll be right up"  

 * 

_Chas’ hair was soft — like silk — dark and smooth, cool to the touch._

_The rest of him was warm — was_ hot _: the quick bursts of his breath, the wide span of his hands, brushing along tan cotton. His body, big and broad, too tall to fit — was _hot_ , heavy, folding around John’s as they lay together, as their mouths fit and slid._

Don’t think about it _, John said, panted — his heart quickened and his sweat beaded and his muscles twitched, from anticipation, desperation, desire._

 _And then Chas was gone, and everything was cold again._  

 *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is The Sex Chapter -- if that's not something you're into, you can skip to Chapter 3 and most of relevant context is mentioned there.

As a rule, John tries to stay out of Chas' room. Partly out of respect for the man's privacy, mostly because he's never truly seen the need to intrude.

So the interior of the space is new to him, though not particularly shocking: neat, impersonal, with entirely predictable flannel bedsheets that nevertheless send a wave of strange affection swelling in John's chest.

He sits down on the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands folded between them. Decides, after a moment, to flop down against the mattress instead. The sheets are soft, and warm, and smell of Chas — he lies back, shoes and coat still on. Legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded and tucked under the back of his head, wrist over wrist. The very picture of calm insouciance, or so he hopes.

Chas, when he arrives, doesn’t seem particularly impressed by this show of casual ease. He sighs. "What are you doing in here." Flat, like he knows the answer, but asked anyway, in the hope he might be wrong.

John shrugs. "Gettin' this over with," he says, and wonders if he should've spent the time before Chas showed up coming up with a better answer.

"That's flattering," Chas says, walking over to him. Pushes John's legs out of the way to sit down on the bed; John rolls his eyes but sits up, parallel to Chas' body. Takes out a cigarette and his lighter, and goes to work. Chas gives him a _look_ , familiarly annoyed, but says nothing. John exhales slow, a billowing plume of smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth — intentionally showy, as intrusive as possible. "You mind?"

"As a matter of fact," Chas says, plucking the cigarette from his lips. Finding no place to stub it out, he sighs, and brings it to his own mouth. Coughs a little upon the inhale.

John holds back a laugh, though not for long. "A bit out of practice, are we?"

Chas exhales slow and even, surprisingly smooth. "Dunno," he says, with a light mockery of John's accent. "Are we?"

John huffs, but takes the cigarette when it's offered to him. Inhales, leaning a little closer to Chas as he does. "So," he says, after the exhale.

"So?" Chas takes the cigarette.

"You wanna fuck me or not, mate?"

John’s hoping for a bit of a reaction to that, for the sake of startling honesty out of him if nothing else. It’s more for Chas' benefit than for his own, really: John, after all, already knows the answer.

Chas just sighs, rolls his eyes, and takes a much steadier drag. Exhales, throwing a swift, sidelong glance at John. It's heated but strangely unsettled: desperate but uncertain.

John can help with that. He smiles as gently as he can, and reaches out. Slips his hand around the back of Chas' neck. Shifts, till he can rest his chin on Chas' shoulder, and lean his chest against Chas' arm. Drops his other hand to Chas' knee. Chas stays still; sighs a little when John kisses the side of his neck, and chokes a little when John slides his hand up along Chas' thigh. Takes a quick drag from the cigarette, apparently to ground himself.

John chuckles, and reaches up to pluck the cigarette from Chas’ unresisting fingers. Lets it drop to the floor, making something of a show of snuffing it out.

Chas makes a familiar sound — amused, annoyed — and turns his head. "John," he starts, and John takes his chance.

Chas tastes of Silk Cut.

He hadn't before, but he does now, unsurprisingly, and John gives a happy, involuntary hum at the realization. Presses against him, coming up on his knees for a better angle. Chas' arm slides around his waist, under his coat — drawing him closer, steadying him, fingers curling around his side. Chas' hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb gentle under his chin.

They break apart again.

“This is a bad idea,” Chas mutters, almost to himself, but John can't help responding.

“I’ve had worse," John says, then takes a moment to wonder if it's true: terrible death and wide-scale destruction are unlikely to result from this particular choice, at least no more than would result otherwise. Worst thing that’ll happen is, he loses Chas, in the most banal, human of ways, the ones that involve slammed doors and emotional recriminations, but lack blood and guts and eternal torment. John can live with that; John can go so far as admit it might be the best thing for Chas, in the long run.

Chas, who’s obviously not taken as much time to consider the possibilities, just laughs. “Yeah, I know,” he says, turning toward John, and kisses him again. Presses a hand flat against John's chest, spanning it almost completely, as he pushes John down and onto his back.

Something flares to life within John, pulsing in his veins, straining at his chest. It's strange, he thinks — he’d wanted Chas before, appreciated the look of him, the big hands, broad shoulders, thick hair, even when he’d been off limits. And once he wasn’t, John’d liked kissing him; Chas’s a good kisser, better than expected, full-bodied and passionate.

So yes, he’d wanted Chas — for a long time, longer than he’d admit, longer than Chas had wanted him, certainly — but he’s never quite _burned_ for him before. Not the way he does now, aching for contact, desperately pulling at Chas' shirt and trousers and hair, needing to touch every inch of him. With Chas, that comes down to a lot of inches, so it's particularly frustrating to be pushed down onto the bed again, leaving the man somewhat out of reach.

John groans in dissatisfaction; Chas chuckles and undoes John’s tie, slips it off him with a slow, steady pull. Begins unbuttoning John’s shirt, workmanlike, not making any show of it at all. Shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, but that's Chas all over, really.

“Can do that myself, can’t I?” John says, hazily, running his fingertips along Chas' hips, slipping them under his shirt and along the soft swell of his belly.

“Then why don’t you?” Chas answers, without venom, and John grins. Goes to unbuckle Chas' belt, unzip his fly. Chas' cock, long and gloriously thick, swells against John’s palm as he draws it out and gives it a swift, light stroke.

“I want you inside of me,” John finds himself saying, matter of fact, and why shouldn’t he: it's true, he does, has wanted it ever since he’d felt Chas' cock harden through his trousers and rub against John’s hip. Chas seems surprised by it, though, fingers stumbling on the last few buttons of John’s shirt. “D’you not do that, mate?”

Chas shrugs, which means, _haven’t yet_. John can work with that. Drops his grip on Chas' cock with some reluctance, and sits up, slipping his arms out of his coat, shrugging his way out of his shirt and tossing it aside. Chas wraps a hand around the back of his neck, draws him into another kiss, open-mouthed and wetter than necessary, before easing him back down.

Chas is gentle with him, in the way large men with more decency than sense tend to be: a thorough knowledge of his own strength and an honest fear of hurting someone who didn’t deserve it constantly keeping him in check, making him overly cautious. John is torn between his hard-wired reckless impulses, the temptation to provoke Chas into a real show of unreserved strength that John'll be glad to feel for days to come, and his own strange, flickering desire to give in to the unjustified tenderness, to melt in the face of Chas' deep, warm kisses and careful hands.

Which isn’t entirely unfamiliar — it’s not like all John’s ever had were rough and brutal fucks with other cold, cruel bastards. He’s had his share of intimacy, of genuine connection, when it comes to sex. There seems no harm in allowing it with Chas, now; no harm at all, and a great deal of pleasure, wrapping an arm around the back of Chas' neck and pulling him in tight. Chas seems glad to be kissing him; takes it seriously, moving his lips against John’s, turned his head in search for the best angle. John thrust up against him, breathless and impatient — Chas pushes him back down, a warm, solid presence pinning him against the soft mattress and cool lining of his coat. John — _writhes_.

He’s as surprised about it as anyone.

Chas laughs, a little nervously, and drops his head, apparently needing to focus as he sets about unbuckling John’s belt, unfastening his trousers, then reaching down to unlace John’s boots. John can do all of that himself as well, but doesn’t — lies back instead, and watches, trying to catch his breath as Chas finishes undressing him.

Chas makes quick work of his shoes, and then his big, broad hands are sliding along John’s thighs, pushing John’s trousers off and running thoughtlessly across his skin. It’s the bare minimum of erotic and not even intentionally so, but the second he finishes — the very _moment_ John is entirely naked and before Chas has a moment to take in the full scope of the situation, and perhaps to regret it, John surges up, grabs hold of the front of Chas’ shirt, and forces their mouths together again.

Chas falls back, out of surprise or apprehension. Brings John with him as he goes, pulling John up and across his chest, so it’s more likely the former than the latter.

John goes willingly, eagerly straddles his waist. Naked and panting, keeping his grip on Chas’ shirt as he kisses him, grinds down against him, leaks precome across his stomach. Chas’ hands run up and down along John’s sides, through John’s hair, cradling the back of John’s head — his mouth is open, and his cock is hard, twitching impatiently against the inside of John’s thigh, even as Chas’ hands remain steady, careful and even tender, stroking down John’s back.

Chas inhales, deep and shuddering — his chest swells with it, and John wishes — John _wants_ — to have taken his shirt off, aches for feeling of skin against skin, as they rut against each other.

John sits up.

Chas’ hands drop to John’s waist, thumbs pressed firmly into John’s hip bones, fingers fanning out around the small of John’s back. John watches his face: his eyes are dark and hazy, pupils wide, eyelids hooded. His mouth is still open, lips slick with spit.

John grinds his arse against Chas’ cock, feels it slide between his cheeks, rub against his hole. Chas groans, grabbing John’s hips, and so John does it again, and again. Rubbing against him, setting a rhythm, letting his head fall back and enjoying the twinge of pain and rush of pleasure that follows it as Chas’ fingers dig into his skin hard enough to bruise.

He leans over, reaching for his coat, which is a crumpled mess half beside, half beneath them. Pulls out the condom and lube, then sets them down.

“Huh,” says Chas, voice low and rough, hands still tight around John’s sides. “You came prepared.”

“Haven’t come at all yet,” he says, grabbing Chas’ wrist and bringing Chas’ fingers to his mouth. Chas rolls his eyes, but his exasperation doesn’t last long. It’s supplanted by curiosity, then surprised arousal, as John sucks at his fingers, running his tongue between them, nipping at the tips.

“What’re you—”

John chuckles and resists the urge to roll his eyes. “What d’you think?” he says, guiding Chas’ hand between his legs.

“Oh,” says Chas. The tips of his ears go pink and his neck flushes, but the embarrassment’s not enough to stop him. He presses one finger into John, then another. It’s a tight fit, with only spit to ease the way. The stretch is painful, but only just, and John resists the urge to squirm, to draw him in further. “Gonna need more l—lube, right?” Chas says, barely stuttering, but not quite meeting John’s eyes.

“Yeah, ‘s why I brought some,” John says, smirking a little, rocking back onto Chas’ fingers. “Another?”

“An—oh. _Okay._ Yeah.” Chas slips another finger into him, and groans a little when John clenches around him. “ _Fuck_.”

And so it goes. John holding back a smirk as Chas works him open, groaning overdramatically when Chas pulls out. Chas snorting and pinching his leg in response, warming the lube over his fingers before sliding into John again. Four fingers, and a slow, uncertain rhythm — John thrusting against his fingers, encouraging him.

It works.

Chas’ fingers piston in and out of him, twisting inside of him, searching for — “ _There_ ,” John groans, as the jolt of heat cleaves through him, rippling up his thighs and stomach, setting his heart thumping against his ribcage.

Chas grins up at him, clearly proud of himself, and rubs fondly at John’s thigh with his other hand.

“Beginners’ bloody _luck_ ,” John groans, and has to shut his eyes as Chas strokes firmly at his prostate again. Holds back a whimper, reins in the temptation to grab Chas’ wrist again and keep Chas still while he rides Chas’ fingers till he comes. “Condom?”

Chas nods, but frowns as John reaches for it. “I can—”

“One handed?” he says, ripping open the foil. Chas huffs and then sighs, as John gives his erection a couple of quick, almost glancing strokes — the weight of it in his palm sends a filthy, ambitious thrill through him. Makes his breath catch, and he looks down. Chas is staring up at him, eyes wide, pupils blown. “You like that?” John purrs, tightening his grip, adding a rough twist to the head.

“Yeah,” Chas whispers, breathless, eyelashes fluttering — John grins, rolling the condom down over Chas’ cock. Draws himself up onto his knees, winces as Chas’ fingers slip out of him. Hums, happily surprised, as Chas’ hand joins his own, helping to guide his cock inside of John.

John inhales — thick as as expected, hot and hard, taking what feels like an eternity to slide entirely inside of him.

“ _Christ_ ,” he groans, straightening his back, thighs shaking with the effort of keeping him upright. “So bloody _big_ , mate.”

Chas flushes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, truly meaning it, and John can’t help but laugh.

 _Don’t be_ , he wants to say. _Fucking glorious._ And it is — it feels like he’s been torn in two, like he’s about to shatter into a million burning pieces. The fullness is almost too much to move around, almost too much to register as pleasure. _Almost_.

He shifts, and Chas looks up at him, astonished — as if he’s discovered some entirely new manner and method of eroticism. Like he may, in fact, be _magic_.

John wants to laugh at that too. Doesn’t. Lets his head fall back, and shuts his eyes. Sways his hips, riding Chas’ cock. Getting used to it, as his own cock slaps against his stomach with the movement, leaving a wet trail of precome across his skin. Feels himself shaking at the effort, perilously close tipping over; knees slipping in the sheets, thighs aching as he moves. Chas’ hands reach up to brace him, steady on John’s chest, sliding up John’s neck and cupping his cheek, cradling the back of John’s head.

John leans into the touch for a moment; hips stuttering in their already erratic rhythm. Takes a breath, sharp and desperate, as Chas runs his thumb along John’s chin. Gentle, patient, for all that he’s rock hard inside of John, for all that he’s breathing like he’s just run a race.

And then John shakes his head. Eyes still shut, breaths still short, hips still churning. Reaches up to wrap his hand around Chas’ wrist again, pushes it back down.

Chas catches on quick — long, thick fingers wrapped around John’s prick, grip firm but careful. So bloody good John almost comes, just from being touched, which is — strange, but not in a way he’s going to think on too closely.

He doesn’t come. Just rocks into Chas’ grip, leaning back, taking him in further. It hurts — it hurts more than he’s expected, and he lets out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

Chas hand stills, then drops away. John opens his eyes, ready to snap at him, ask why he’s stopped. Doesn’t get a chance to — Chas is pulling himself up, hand on the bed for leverage, and then in John’s hair again, around the back of his head, drawing him in. His other hand strokes at John’s side, spans the length of his ribs easily. John chokes in a ragged shard of air.

Chas’ brow furrows, and hand drifting up John’s back, soothing him. “Okay?”

“Will be,” he manages, glancing down; their chests aren’t quite touching, but his cock is grazing Chas’ still-clothed stomach, rising and falling with his breathing. He reaches for one of Chas’ hands, trying to pull it back down, silently pleading to be touched again. Chas tightens his grip around the back of John’s neck and pulls him closer with the arm around his waist, and doesn’t let him.

“ _Wait_ ,” he murmurs, and John wants to glare — wants to struggle — wants to rub off against Chas’ stomach with single-minded fervor and then pull off, leaving the man to his own devices when it comes to _his_ satisfaction.

He doesn’t.

“Look at me,” Chas says, softly. John looks — Chas’ green eyes are soft, full of concern, flickering between arousal and affection, a strange, heady mix of both. His mouth is hot and wet, when it’s pressed to John’s again. He tastes of — nothing, John supposes. Spit and sweat and _Chas_. John melts into the contact, sagging against the solid heat of his chest, and lets himself be held.

The kiss is long and rougher than John expects. It leaves him lightheaded, so desperate for air that he almost doesn’t notice when Chas’ hand stops carding through his hair, when it slides down his torso and slips into the between their bodies.

Chas’ strokes are steady and tight, workmanlike — no teasing, no showing off of hard-earned technique. Wanking him off as simply and quickly as possible. John spares a thought to whether this is how Chas gets _himself_ off, big hands tugging briskly at the thick, hot shaft that’s still buried deep in John’s arse, almost tearing him apart. John drops his head, pressing his forehead into Chas’ shoulder, panting in desperate time with the rhythm of Chas’ hand on his cock. He hasn’t the room to move or breath or think or worry, except about—

“Don’t stop,” he whines, burying his face against the side Chas’ neck, too strung out on sensation and desperate for more that he can’t even be ashamed of it.

“I won’t,” Chas promises, soothing, rubbing his back and kissing the top of his head, and then more fervently: “I _won’t_.”

John comes.

Jerking into Chas’ grip, spurting all over Chas’ shirt. Smothering an almost-sob against Chas’ shoulder, turning it into a low, satisfied groan as Chas lets his hand drop from John’s cock to his thigh.

“Okay?” Chas says, sounding a little uncertain about it himself. John just nods, pulse still racing, still somewhat lost in the hazy, buzzing bliss of an orgasm. Chas chuckles. John feels it everywhere — around him, inside of him. Chas is overwhelming present, in that moment — his hands, his scent, the warmth of his body. His thighs, firm beneath John’s. His mouth, pressed to John’s forehead.

His cock, still rigid, stretching John open, imminently painful, but not yet, _not yet_. He arches his back, and Chas makes a sound — a gloriously low, rough, unguarded _sound_ , which in more than a decade of knowing the man, John never would’ve imagined him capable of. His hand flexes around John’s thigh, and John tips his head up.

“I—” Chas starts, fingers trailing along John’s leg, and then stops. John leans in. Runs his hands up Chas’ chest, gets a good grasp on Chas’ shirt with both hands, and hauls him closer.

“Shirt,” he pants, as their noses brush and foreheads bump. “ _Off._ ”

Chas tenses, and nods, and lets out a shaky breath as he goes to comply. John’s hands drop to help him, curling around the bottom edge of his shirt, and Chas chooses to impede the process instead of expediting it. Squeezes John’s fingers with his own, firm but fast, too fast for John to respond, and then grabs at the end of his shirt and yanks it off in one smooth motion. Tosses it to the floor without apparent second thought, and John closes the distance again, draping his arms around Chas’ shoulders and kissing him.

Slow, and lazy, and very wet — strokes at Chas’ tongue with his own, sighs into his mouth. "Fuck me," he murmurs, against Chas' lips.

"Sure?" Chas asks, barely pulling back enough to speak. John just nods, and Chas smiles, easing him down onto the mattress, covering John almost entirely with his body.

Presses quick, soft kisses across John’s chest. John lets his head fall back, keeps his hands on Chas' shoulders.

Chas slides out of him, then inches back in; slow, shallow thrusts of his hips, too guarded to be of any real use to Chas — too careful to do anything for John but drive _him_ mad, either.

“Harder,” John gasps. “ _Fuck_. Like you bloody well mean it, _Christ_.”

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” Chas mumbles, ducking his head, almost like he’s ashamed about it. John groans again.

“You won’t. You _couldn’t_.” Of course he could. Of course John wants him to — wants to feel wrecked and used and filthy. _Owned_. He’ll ache from this for _days_ as it, and still he wants — he wants — he _wants_ , and gives a weak, unconvincing thrust onto Chas’ cock again. “ _Please_ ,” he whines. “Please.”

“John,” Chas sighs, but grasps at John’s hips, pulls John down onto his cock. Slowly, still so bloody _careful_ , but firm, hands tight around John’s waist. The next thrust is harder, pushes John up the bed. Chas lifts his head to apologize and John grabs him, pulls his mouth back down against his own.

It’s wet and sloppy and deep; John keeps one arm around the back of Chas’ neck, lets his other hand stroke up and down along Chas’ back, encouraging the quickening rhythm of his hips. Wraps a leg around Chas’ waist, drags him in closer, changing the angle — a sharp pulse of heat coils through him, sets his heart hammering against his ribs. His head falls back against the mattress and Chas kisses his throat, his shoulder, whatever he can reach. John arches up against him, chasing more contact, more pressure.

“Are you...?” Chas says, breathless, obviously surprised — his hips still, and he lifts his head, glances down between them. To John’s cock, which is twitching, half-hard again, pressed against Chas’ stomach.

John closes his eyes, sighs. “A bit, yeah.”

Chas drops his head, stifles a moan against John’s collarbone. “Could you—” he pants, licking up John’s neck. “Could you come again?”

“Ask me to,” John mumbles. “Tell me to. _Make_ me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Chas hisses, grabs his waist again, keeping John still as he fucks him again, harder than before — pulling John’s hips up to meet each thrust, grunting into the side of John’s neck, beard scratching at John’s skin and leaving him raw.

It’s overwhelming and brutal and _perfect_. John runs his hands through Chas’ dark, thick hair, which is damp with sweat, and moans in his ear, something along the lines of _good, good, so bloody good, mate, don’t stop,_ please _don’t—_

When he comes, quick and dry, sending him arching off the bed, it’s a relief — at least he can stop babbling incoherently, can wrap himself around Chas and ride out the last waves of sensation. Chas is quick to follow, gasping into the hollow of John’s throat, going still and rigid above him, and then suddenly, achingly, calm.

He pulls out slow. John appreciates it: endorphins and adrenaline can only do so much, and are quickly fading, leaving him aching and raw and empty. He sighs, and lies back, eyes half closed, half watching, as Chas removes the condom and ties it off, rises from the bed, zips up his jeans again, and goes to throw it out. Takes off his trousers, and folds them up.

Head ducked the entire time, and John wonders at it — hadn’t felt like he was ashamed, during, but cold, post-coital reality can do strange things to a man. Not that it ever has to John, and yet...

Before Chas can return, John pushes the detritus of the night — his coat and shirt, the bottle of lube, the condom wrapper — off the bed.

“Don’t do that,” scolds Chas, sounding almost normal.

“Come back to bed,” John says, making no such effort — his voice is blown and ever well-used inch of him aches.

Chas sighs, but it’s the amused, fond, _I can’t believe you_ sigh, and he comes. Rolls John over a little, just so he can pull the blanket over him.

Settles in next to him. Close, but not close enough to touch — this seems intentional on Chas’ part, and John can’t quite settle on whether he minds. Chas, for his part, looks at him very carefully, green eyes slightly unfocused but apparently determined to stare.

 _What?_ John wants to snap. But Chas then reaches over, to brush John’s hair back, to caress the side of John’s face, before dropping his hand to pull the blanket up and tuck it in around them.

Chas looks…happy. Lips twitching with a smile, eyes soft beyond post-coital pleasure and exhaustion. _Probably the first time he’s gotten off with another person in more than a year_ says the cold, bitter part of him, but still: John smiles.

It’s like flipping a switch. Chas’ entire being seems to lighten: he grins, and his eyes brighten, and his body angles toward John’s, still not quite touching him but close enough that John can feel his warmth again.

“Are you—was that—” Chas shuts his eyes for a moment, shakes his head. “How are you?”

“Bit sore,” John manages, without thinking, because he is and saying anything else is a minefield. Chas’ face falls instantly, euphoria and relief fading fast. “In a...good way. I—” he reaches out rests his hand on Chas’ cheek. “I like—”

Chas looks up at him again. “When it hurts?”

“You,” John says, slightly above a whisper. “I like you.”

Chas’ eyes widen, and he looks like he’s about to speak. But then he smiles, shakes his head, and reaches over. Hand around the back of John’s neck — fingers warm and calloused against John’s too-sensitive, too-hot skin, but somehow soothing, somehow — good.

“Okay,” Chas says, and leans over to press a kiss to John’s forehead. Wraps his arms around John’s torso — should be too much, too warm, too close to be to someone you’ve just finished fucking. Someone who’s just finished fucking you. _Christ_ , he’s irrational. “Get some sleep,” Chas murmurs, stroking John’s back, and John curls closer, shuts his eyes, and does.

*


	3. Chapter 3

_Chas’ hands stroked over cotton and skin alike, careful, gentle, reverent. Over the body and along the back, between silk lining and white shirt._

_The tangle of bodies, hands and arms and legs and skin — bedsheets around them, clothes between them. Condensed breaths and sweat-slick skin and — lube, and come. Soaking through, wicked away; fibers spreading and contracting to ease the passage._

_John, breathless and panting, arching up, shaking:_ I want you inside me _._

Yes, _the thought — the thought! — the_ thought _? — comes through, then ripples, then ebbs._ Me too _._

*

“What’re you—“ Chas blinks; John's suddenly, pointedly, staring at the wall ahead of him and not at all at Chas. "Were you watching me?”

John exhales a long curl of smoke. “Why? You doin' something you shouldn’t?"

Chas holds back a yawn and reaches over, wrapping his hand around John’s thigh. John glances down at him, narrow-eyed. Chas chuckles to himself, rubbing playfully at John’s leg. “Everything okay?"

Shrug, inhale, look away — typical John behavior that means _no, not really, not at all,_ tipping more than a little toward _panicking but determined to hide it._

Chas sits up. John peers at him from the corner of his eye, exhales slowly again, not saying a word out loud but expressing a great deal, especially once Chas reaches over and wraps his hand around John’s wrist.

“C’mon, come here,” he murmurs, trying his best not to sound like he's coaxing a frightened animal out of its hiding place. John rolls his eyes but lets himself be dragged over, settles easily enough between Chas' legs, with his back pressed to Chas' chest. Sighs, and takes another drag from his cigarette. Chas wraps an arm around his waist, and takes a breath of his own, inhaling the scent of sweat and smoke and sex. John snorts around his cigarette and then removes it, reaching back to offer it to Chas.

It’s been years since Chas smoked, not since before he was married. But it's not like it's going to kill him; not before anything else will, anyway. He inhales slow, getting used to the feeling of smoke in his lungs again. John leans back, not entirely relaxed, but comfortable, seemingly made from flesh and bone again and not just tension and sharp right angles. Turns his head, just enough to press his forehead to the side of Chas' neck.

Chas removes the cigarette from his lips and looks around. There's a mug on the side table; hadn’t been there when he came in last night, but knowing John, it’s long-forgotten and whatever it contains is tepid at best. He drops the cigarette into it and uses his now-free hand to stroke at John’s hair; John sighs again and nuzzles closer, not even objecting to the waste of the cigarette.

“Did you want something, then?” he says, voice soft; Chas has heard him tired before, has heard him weary and exhausted and at more than one breaking point. This is different — spent, but satisfied. Chas finds himself smiling.

“No, I’m good."

“Mm,” John says, clearly not believing him; presses a kiss to the side of his throat. “Dunno if I’d go that far, mate. Decent at best. Good enough first effort, I s'ppose. Definite room for improvement, though."

Chas has to laugh. “Is that some kind of invitation?"

John hums vaguely and sagged back against him. “Practice makes perfect an’ all that."

“Uh-huh,” Chas says, and finds his way to John’s mouth again. 

*

_The thing about magic was, it was messy._

_It was fluid and pushy, clinging and cloying._

_The thing about magic was — it tended to stain._  

*

He wakes up warm.

The sheets are tight around him, soft but secure. The pillow smells of Chas’ hair — that no-nonsense shampoo of his, the kind he buys in bulk and hides somewhere around the mill house, where John’s never been able to find it.

John blinks his eyes open: he’s alone, curled up on his side, and sore. He rolls over onto his back, which twinges — light’s slipping through the window, meaning it must be morning already, probably earlier than he’d like.

He hears movement, and glances over: the muscles in his neck aren’t terrible pleased about it, but needs must. Chas is puttering around, looking about the same as ever — fully clothed, big and broad, dark, thick hair fluttering forward as he leans over to pick something up — certainly nothing exceptional enough to merit the reaction John has, which is a sharp intake of breath and a rapid, panicked fluttering of his heart.

Chas looks up. “Hey,” he says, soft. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” He did; no other reason John would’ve woken up this early. John sits up, checking the impulse to wince as he does. “What’re you doing up?”

“I was gonna get a load started before breakfast,” says Chas, rolling John’s tie around his broad palm with uncalculated ease. John watches him with interest, which does not go unnoticed. “What?”

“Can wash my own clothes, Chas.”

“I don’t mind,” says Chas. “I like to—” drops his gaze, shakes his head. Picks up John’s coat. Folds it up, running his hands over it carefully. “It’s not a problem.”

 _I like to take care of you_ , he was going to say. John knows it — it’s a fundamental fact of Chas. Good old dependable Chas, you can set your watch by him: he’ll cook for you and clean your flat and _stick around_ , to his own detriment, and all you’ve ever got to do is throw him a scrap of attention and maybe, occasionally, save his life.

“Right,” says John, pulling the sheets up around his waist. He’s stark naked, which isn’t terribly unusual or much of a problem to him, but experience has taught him that neither Chas nor Zed are terribly fond of him existing as such in the common areas. “Got anythin’ for me to wear in the meantime?”

Chas nods toward a pile of clothes — John’s own, apparently — that’ve been neatly folded and left on a chair. “You go in my room for that?” he says, smirking.

Chas snorts. “That’d be gross violation of privacy, huh?” he shakes his head. “But no, actually. All of that’s stuff I’d been working on. Lost buttons, ripped seams. That kind of thing.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway,” says Chas, arms full of John’s clothes, and some of his own. “Take a shower if you want,” he nods toward the bathroom, and then turns, like he’s about to head out the door. “Breakfast’ll be done in about half an hour, so—”

“Oi,” John says, and Chas looks over at him.

“What?”

He pats the side of the bed next to him, giving Chas a long, steady look as he does.

He can’t imagine himself to be particularly alluring at the moment, but Chas walks over anyway, lets himself be dragged down to sit on the edge of the mattress. John reaches over to kiss him, soft and slow, running his hands through Chas’ hair, before he pulls back. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Whatever we’ve got,” says Chas, hands in his lap, smoothing down the pile of clothes he hasn’t let go.

John glances up at his face, then back down. “You all right? With….everythin’?”

“I don’t know,” says Chas, a bit of a challenge in his tone. "What’s everything?”

John rolls his eyes, and gives a quick wave between them.

“Oh, _everything_ ,” says Chas, and sighs.

“Well? Are you?” John mumbles, keeping his gaze on Chas’ mouth: Chas nods, too quickly, but firm, like he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. A blessing, because John’s not especially eager to push the issue himself.

“You?” Chas says, and John glances up. Chas’ eyes dart to his, and John gives a quick _Fine, for now_ nod of his own. Chas smiles a little at that. “Okay,” he says, sounding slightly pleased. “Well. Great, I’ll—” he drops the clothes, presses his hands to John’s cheeks, and leans up to kiss John’s forehead. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

A shower, a shave, and a change of clothes go a long way toward making him feel human again, but everything still aches, and not in an entirely pleasant way, once he exits Chas’ room. And then of course there’s Zed, staring him down from the other side of the hallway. Can’t even say he’s surprised by _that_ turn of events, but it’s not bound to end well.

“Chas’s in the kitchen,” he says, casually as he can, squaring his shoulders and heading toward her.

“I wasn’t looking for Chas.”

“Oh yeah? Who’re you lookin’ for, then?” he says, walking past.

“Walls in here are pretty thick,” Zed says, deceptively light. “Strange to hear anything at all at night.”

“You hear somethin’ odd last night? Things goin’ bump in the night? Ghouls and ghosties, rattlin’ of chains, somethin’ like that?”

“Yeah, something like that,” she says, sharp, and John turns to her. She’s not even bothering to hide her discomfort anymore. “Something _odd_.”

“Big believer in personal privacy, aren’t you?”

“Big believer in a good night’s sleep, when I can get it. And you—”

“Now, don’t go bein' a sore loser, love,” he says, pulling away from her. “You had your chance, here. Figured you were better off with—”

“The last thing I am is _jealous_ ,” she says, suddenly cold.

“Then—”

“I’m _worried_ ,” she hisses.

“‘bout me?” he says, knowing full well she’s not. “Well, that’s jolly—”

She narrows her eyes. “No, not about you, you _ass_ , have you—”

“Funny you should mention that, _actually_ , ‘cause it’s _my_ arse that—”

“Hey,” calls Chas, looming out of the dark end of the hallway, like a red-checked ship breaking from the fog. "Mornin', Zed."

"Good morning, Chas," she says, all warmth, any sign of tension instantly gone.

"John?"

John turns to look at him. Chas's got a look on his face like he's entirely prepared to feign ignorance about the entire conversation he's just overheard, but wants it to be clear he's heard it. "Yeah?"

"Breakfast's ready."

"Yeah," says John, nodding. "Yeah, all right." He attempts a smile, rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks, mate."

"No problem," Chas says, ducking away again, back to the kitchen.

John looks back at Zed. She's raising her eyebrows, like some sort of point has just been proved. "Breakfast's ready," he says, shrugs, and walks away.

Zed follows, throws him a _We're not finished_ sort of look as she passes, which John meets with an eyeroll, and practically _jogs_ to get to the table first. It's been set for the three of them, as it usually is when Chas' home. John collapses into his chair, and immediately regrets it.

Chas doesn't catch his wince, but Zed, seated directly in front of him, most certainly does. She gives him a strangely sympathetic look. That is, if anything, worse than the alternative. John sighs.

“Eggs or sausage?” says Chas.

“Both,” John grumbles, reaching for the coffee — not his preference, but he thinks he’s going to need it. It’s bitter, and he must make a face, because Chas laughs, and ruffles his hair a little while setting down the plate in front of him. John grabs at Chas’ wrist, twist in his seat, and leans up. Press a quick peck to Chas’ lips, before he can pull back or ask why or otherwise react. “Thanks, love.”

Chas straightens and turns, tips of his ears gone slightly pink. “No...problem, John.”  

*

_Draped over the side of the couch, forgotten as usual, listing a little and tugged at by gravity — it wasn’t hard, ultimately, to tumble the rest of the way. To land in a crumpled heap on Chas’ chest — Chas, who’d been likewise forgotten, while John fucked off and Zed went after him, leaving Chas to come back to an empty house. Chas, who’d sat down to read, and wait, and fallen asleep._

_Chas, who didn’t notice the weight, or the movement — the steady, creeping slide up along his torso, spreading out, over his chest, his arms. Too broad, too long, too big to fit, normally but — this is all right. Covering him up, keeping him warm. Chas mumbled something, turned to his side — one arm curled under him, pillowing his head. A spark of inspiration, and sleeves wrapped around Chas: a careful, hesitant embrace._

_Chas stirred, tucking his nose into the coat’s collar. Inhaled, deep. “John?” he murmured, but didn’t wake._

_The front door banged open above them._

_The sounds of raised voices and heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs: “— going to happen when it goes bad, John? Did you even—”_

_“I’ll bloody well handle it_ then _, won’t—”_

 _“Oh like you handle everything,_ so _well—”_

_“I do—”_

_"You can't just kick Chas out in the morning with the promise Chas's gonna drive him home!"_

_"Did that_ once _, all right, I did that_ one _bloody time—”_

 _"No, only_ one _of your..._ guests _...took you up on it! You'_ tried _it at least four times. One time_ I _had to drive her back, ‘cause Chas was still in Brooklyn and you’d—"_

_“Still don’t see how—”_

_Chas rolled over again, onto his back, frowning; head turned away from the sounds, arm draped over his eyes. In the rush to keep him covered — and warm, and sleeping, at peace — a rustle, quiet, almost silent behind the sound of bickering but:_

_Zed blinked. “Wait,” she had, holding up her hand in truce, or at the very least, detente.“Is that—”_

_John looked, head cocked and eyes sharp. Nodded._

_“Did it just—”_

_Another quick nod, and John walked over — slow, brow furrowed. Eyes sparking with curiosity and suspicion, but also — amusement. Knelt beside the couch, and reached out: the coat huddled over Chas’ body and — _rustled_ again, low and intentional, protective._

_John snorted, shaking his head, and pulled back._

_“John?” whispered Zed, creeping up behind him. “Shouldn’t we….”_

_“Nah,” he said, and glanced back, grinning. “It’s ‘armless.”_

_Zed groaned and rolled her eyes. “John—”_

_“And look,” John murmured, expression softening as he turned around again, out of Zed’s sight. He reached out, carefully, to stroke at Chas’ hair. “Seems to like him, yeah? So how bad can it be.”_

_Zed sighed._

_"It’s not just Chas I’m worried about, you know," she said, after a moment, so soft that it seemed John might not have heard her._

_John shrugged, smoothing a few strands of Chas’ hair off his forehead. Chas exhaled, letting out low, satisfied hum. John smiled. “Get some rest, love.”_

*

“John,” he says, calmly as he can.

“Yeah, mate?”

“Is it just me or….” he hesitates, casting about for the right sequence of words that’ll prevent him from sounding entirely insane. “Is your trench coat…”

“Movin’? On it’s own, like?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that.”

“Yeah,” says John, with a smirk that almost entirely masks the quiver of exhausted acceptance in his tone. “Yeah, it does that.”

The item in question creeps further into Chas’ lap, emitting a low, sussurating sound as it does, almost like a purr. Chas swallows. “Since when?”

“Dunno. Coupla days ago, at least.”

“Okay,” Chas nods, and John looks up at him. “So….do you have any idea why, or...?”

John shrugs, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. “Magical residue, I s’ppose. Only one I’ve got, probably gets the brunt of the discharge, and so on.”

Chas suspects John’s talking about 90% out of his ass, but opts not to mention it. “And you’re….” Chas glances down at it: it seems normal, if somewhat cleaner than usual. He lays a curious, cautious hand on it — feels it vibrate, and warm under his touch. “You’re not gonna do anything about it?”

“No point, really. Seems friendly enough.”

Chas has to laugh — it does, he supposes. He runs his palm over the smooth fabric; it pushes back against him, gentle and careful and only _slightly_ unnerving. “Are you sure it’s….safe?”

“Safe as houses.” Chas throws him a look, and John rolls his eyes. “I kept wearin’ it, didn’t I?”

That’s not as convincing as John thinks it is — John has a disturbing tendency to vacillate between laughable recklessness and brutal self preservation, largely depending on his mood. But the coat itself curls around Chas, and makes the soft, almost-purr sound again. Chas huffs, surprised. “I think it likes me.”

“Likes you better than it does me, anyway,” John says, dropping his gaze again. “Can join the bloody club on that account, I s’ppose.”

Chas chuckles, shaking his head, and stands, bringing the coat with him as he does. “Hey,” he says, coming up around John.

“Yeah?” John half turns, eyes still on the book in front of him — something old, with faded text but unfortunately vivid, deeply unsettling illustrations: what passes for light reading in John Constantine’s world.

Chas resists the strange but not entirely unfamiliar impulse to wrap his arms around John and kiss the back of his neck. “C’mon,” he says instead, holding out John’s coat. John glances over at him, and his lips twitch around his cigarette.

“We goin’ somewhere?” he says, turning back around, sliding his arms into the sleeves.

“Yeah,” says Chas, running his hands down John’s sides; warmth radiates against his palm, and he spares a moment to wonder how much of it is John’s body heat and how much of it is….not. “Out. I’m gonna let you buy me dinner.”

John snorts. “Mm, awfully generous of you there, mate,” he says, leaning over to stub his cigarette out. In an ashtray, for a change. “You gonna spend the whole meal tellin’ me how _you_ would’ve made it?”

“Maybe,” he says, and gives in to temptation: leans in, drops a quick kiss to the nape of John’s neck. John tenses, for a moment, then exhales, presses back into Chas’ chest. “Maybe not.”

“Keepin’ me in suspense, eh? What’s it depend on?”

“Could always give me something better to talk about, I guess.”

John turns in his arms, and looks up him — smiling slightly, eyes sharp as ever but brighter than usual. “Could I, then,” he drawls, tipping his head up further, dropping his hands to grab at the ends of Chas’ shirt.

“Well, you know,” he says, pointedly folding down the collar of John’s trench coat. “Anything’s possible.”

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic on October 26, 2015 -- when hope was high & life worth living, etc -- and here we are, finally. I'm.......proud of it?


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